Retrospect
by PartHeart
Summary: Glimpses of Jac Naylor's past.
1. Chapter 1

_15:08. 20_ _th_ _July 1991._

* * *

Dark grey clouds block out the sky. Their presence is suffocating. The air is heavy with cloying humidity. She looks up with a scowl and wishes it would hurry up and rain. She's had enough of being in limbo.

The social worker to her right is still talking, seemingly unaware that her charge has long since stopped listening. Her voice drones monotonously. The continuous background buzz reminds Jac of a wasp, and she's struck by an urge to swat it away. She has seen, and been seen by, countless social workers. She's beginning to suspect that they're produced from the same shaped mould. Factory made. The uniform stern expressions, the insincere thin-lipped smiles, the deep furrows marking their brow beyond their years, the greying hair. Large bosomed. Handsy. Overbearing. All part of the same machine.

"Jackie!" Her name is called sharply.

She blinks.

"Did you listen to anything I just said?" The woman is staring at her, too close for comfort in the already oppressive weather.

"No." Jac scowls back. She doesn't need to listen. She's heard scores of variations of this speech before.

They were very sorry, but she just didn't fit into their established family life. She was the wrong shaped jigsaw piece. They were sorry, they never imagined they could have their own baby. The pregnancy was a complete surprise. They didn't have the time and resources for them both. They were sorry, but after all, blood is thicker than water. They were sorry, but she was too disruptive. Too much for them to handle. Maybe if she hadn't been so volatile… If she hadn't tested so many boundaries…

They were sorry. It was for the best.

And they were sorry.

The reproachful look she receives invokes a tidal surge of gutsy teenage defiance. She folds her arms and narrows her eyes. "The stupid cow deserved it."

This earns her a disapproving tut. "I know you were jealous of Emma, but it was a family heirloom. Breaking it was unforgivable."

"I'm not jealous!" She glares- riled. "It's babyish. I didn't want it!"

The porcelain doll had been ghastly. Really, she'd done them a favour. It wasn't as if Emma was short of playthings; plump teddy bears with beady, glass eyes, and satin bows tied proudly around their necks covered half of her bed. Fairy dolls with sparkling, delicate wings lined her shelves, alongside book upon book of bedtime stories, full of the false promise of Happily Ever After. Her lip curls in disdain.

And then Jac's eyes fall upon the black bin bag on the floor by the social worker's feet. It contains clothes. A book or three. Her toothbrush. A raggedy teddy bear hidden at the very bottom, amongst the odd socks. All of her worldly possessions. It's degrading and the sight of it brings an angry blush to her cheeks.

She's not sorry at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_05:51. 20_ _th_ _April 1990._

* * *

Today is her birthday. The first one without her mum. Except, that's not strictly speaking true. Birthdays had never been a day of celebration in the Burrows' household.

It's early. She pulls back one of the curtains and fixes her eyes on the horizon. The sun is yet to rise, yet she knows it will. In her 13 years of life she's learnt it's the only thing you can rely on.

She closes her eyes- suddenly hit by a memory that's years old _. Her teacher is asking her what she got for her birthday. She mistakes her silence for shyness and instead starts guessing. A teddy bear? A doll? Some new bedtime stories? At each suggestion the lump in her throat grows bigger._ Later that day she'd hit a boy in her class for not letting her have a go with the toys. Her blow can't have been that hard, but he'd lost his balance, fallen over, and hit his head. Her teacher had spoken with mum. She didn't get any dinner that night.

She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the memory in a manner akin to the way a dog rids its coat of water. Today is the day she becomes a teenager. Now she's grown up, she shouldn't be wasting her time with babyish thoughts.

Her eyes sweep across her room. St Bartholomew's Children's Home is a cold and unforgiving building; she can't afford to be weak. There's a permanent draft from the single glazed windows which she can't do anything about, but she's already figured out which steps on the stairs creak, and how to prize up the floorboard next to her bed to access a hiding place for her most precious belongings.

She's not here to make friends. She keeps herself to herself- a gut instinct tells her it's safer that way. Despite this, a small part of her longs for a proper birthday. She's seen films, she knows how it's supposed to be done. Friends bring you presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper. There's balloons and banners and music.

Her lip twitches up into a Mona Lisa smile as she imagines her birthday cake. Bright red strawberry jam glues together the three layers of light vanilla sponge. The royal icing is bright white, smooth and unblemished. Intricate piping spells out "Happy Birthday Jac" and 13 colourful candles have been carefully positioned around the message.

She imagines taking a deep breath, hesitating, then blowing out all of the candles in one triumphant puff. The best part is she can choose who gets to eat her cake. Certainly not _Lewis_ , who'd snatched her packet of ready salted crisps from her yesterday lunch time.

She shakes her head again, furious with herself when she realises that all the while her mum has been present in her daydream, watching her blow out her candles from the corner of the room, a look of pride on her face.

She digs her nails into her arm, punishing herself for being so self-indulgent. Paula isn't coming. She doesn't care about birthdays. She needs to grow up.

Stoically she turns back to face the window. She'll watch the sun rise like she does every morning. Today isn't special.

.

 _2:35. 20_ _th_ _April 1990._

* * *

 _My name's not Jacky, this isn't my cake.  
My name's not Jacky. This isn't my cake._  
 _My name's NOT Jacky._  
 _This isn't my cake!  
_

Blow out the candles. Make a wish.

 _Please let my mummy be here._

 _._

* * *

 **AN:** This should make more sense if you've seen X-Y factor from series 12. Thanks for reading and please review!


	3. Chapter 3

_21:18. 7_ _th_ _July 1991._

* * *

Her mind is already fuzzy but she reaches for the bottle and takes another swig, supressing a grimace as the off brand Polish vodka (the cheapest of the corner shop's offerings) burns her throat.

"God, this stuff tastes like paint stripper." She informs her company with a slur, the words running into each other, merging into one. "Are you sure it's not going to burn a hole in my oesoph-" She hiccups.

He gives her a wry look.

"Oesophagus." She tries again. Upon getting the medical term out she flashes him a triumphant grin.

He shakes her head at her, snickering. "And how would you know what paint stripper tastes like?"

She scowls. "Educated guess."

They're sat in the park, knees pulled up to their chests and backs pressed against a heavily graffitied wall. It would be cold if it weren't for the alcohol mixing with blood in their veins. The sun is starting to set, casting shades of red and orange and pink over the sky as it descends below the horizon. It's pretty, she observes with a slight smile.

It's past her curfew. She's 14 and he's 17 and that in itself is enough to get her heart racing. The vodka is the cherry on top of this particular act of teenage rebellion.

For a moment she entertains the possibility of never going back. They could run away together. Run from the constant shouting and crying and screaming and tedium of the home… but she knows it won't work. People will be looking for them even now, and they've only been AWOL a few hours. And then there's the matter of school. Education is her ticket out of this path of life she's been unceremoniously dumped on. She's going to become a doctor. She's going to prove them wrong.

"Want a light?" He asks, holding out a lit cigarette for her to take.

It drags her from her thoughts. She hesitates for a moment, then takes it from him. With a hint of uncertainty she meets his eyes then puts it to her lips.

He shakes his head, leaning closer to her. "No, not like that. You're just holding the smoke in your mouth! You need to breathe it in."

This earns him another scowl. She's indignant. "I was!"

"You weren't." He counters, mirth in his eyes. "Look, try again." He instructs. With a slight smirk he reaches forward and pinches her nose.

She breathes in, again, determined to do it properly this time. A tickle in her throat escalates quickly into a full blown coughing fit that sends her eyes streaming.

He lets go of her nose, laughing. "Sorry." He rubs her back and the coughs subside.

"That's horrible." She informs him, a shy smile starting to spread across her face in response to his wide grin.

He shrugs and takes the cig back. "All the more for me then."

They lapse back into silence. He puts an arm around her back and in return she leans her head against his shoulder.

The sun disappears and darkness sets in.

"You're alright, Naylor. You know that?"

She turns her head to look at him, touched by the sentiment, and the use of her newly adopted surname. The adults refuse to acknowledge that she's not Burrows anymore. "You're not bad either." She turns her head away and mutters back.

"Thanks." The arm he's wrapped around her gives her a warm squeeze.

She can hear a new-found seriousness in his voice and it causes her brow to furrow. "What's up?"

"If Yates or Brown give you any trouble, you come and find me, you hear me?" He's gruff.

She looks back at him, eyes wide, and wonders if this is what having a brother would feel like. His eyes lock with hers, and there's such sincerity in them she finds herself unable to look away.

"Jac. I need you to promise you'll tell me."

Slowly, she nods. "I promise."

Half an hour later a community officer stops by and in a police car they're taken home.

.

 _4:32. 10_ _th_ _July 1991._

* * *

She's just back from school when she overhears the news.

He's gone. He's gone and nobody thought to tell her. She didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

She runs upstairs and, with all her force, slams the door shut. The frame shakes. She takes fleeting gratification from the loud bang.

She throws herself onto her bed and scrunches her eyes shut. She's not going to let the furious, hot tears that suddenly fill her eyes fall.

She ought to be used to people leaving by now.


End file.
